


i don't need you (but i need so much more)

by sparxwrites



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Masturbation, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Underage Sex, Rapist's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8893555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: He doesn’t have the good dreams every night – or even most nights. Most nights, his sleep is silent, interspersed with hitching gasps or soft groans, tiny noises of stress and fear that fade as soon as they come. Some nights, he’s entirely silent, or snoring soft and even, and on those nights she can barely stand to listen. Boring. Boring, that he should have a night’s uninterrupted sleep, and refuse to provide her with the entertainment she craves.She checks in every night, though, in hope of a good night, and tonight… Tonight is one of the good nights.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (see notes at end of work for more thorough warnings.)

He doesn’t have the good dreams every night – or even most nights. Most nights, his sleep is silent, interspersed with hitching gasps or soft groans, tiny noises of stress and fear that fade as soon as they come. Some nights, he’s entirely silent, or snoring soft and even, and on those nights she can barely stand to listen. Boring. _Boring_ , that he should have a night’s uninterrupted sleep, and refuse to provide her with the entertainment she craves.

She checks in every night, though, in hope of a good night, and tonight… Tonight is one of the _good_ nights.

She takes herself a little ways from camp, under the guise of keeping watch, finds a dry place to sit and settles down, gets herself comfortable. The listening stone she keeps looped around her neck on a leather thong clinks against the metal of her fingers as she pulls it out of her shirt, settling in her palm with a quiet, ringing sound.

Her other hand, flesh and blood, tugs at the hem of her long, woollen skirt, hitching it up to settle around her waist. The chill of the night air against her newly-bared skin is sharp, but not unbearable – the leather of her riding boots come up past mid-calf, and besides, she doesn’t intend to leave herself exposed for terribly long. Orgasms, in her opinion, are generally something to be dealt with as quickly and efficiently as possible.

That’s not to say, though, that she can’t _enjoy_ herself in the process.

Tightening her grip on the listening stone with a faint shriek of metal on stone, she closes her eyes and _focuses_. Lets her fingers wander up the bare skin of her inner thigh, trailing the blunted edges of her fingernails as she goes – she’s so _sensitive_ there, just the barest contact enough to make the wiry muscles of her thighs twitch and jump. The weakness of it annoys her, but the sparks it sends skittering from toe to sternum most definitely do _not_.

She’s just reached the crease where thigh meets mons, the faint line from hip to leg-fork, when she hears it. A quiet exhale, ragged around the edges, followed by a sharp, stuttering inhale. It’s music to her ears, and she can’t help but _smile_ , the expression sharp in the corners where her lips pull back from her teeth.

Fingers straying sideways, to dance across the thin cotton of her underwear, she finds her clit with a half-thought and presses down, faint, almost teasing. It’s too light, too muffled by fabric to do much more than send a lazy coil of relaxation up her spine – but that’s fine.

Her true pleasure is not in her fingers as they rub easily over her lips and clit through her underwear, but in the _noises_ Percival is making, noises she can hear through the stone as if he were laid out right in front of her. It’s delightful, and she can almost _imagine_ him, sprawled on his bed in the dark, eyes closed, sheets kicked half-off as he twitches in the grip of his dreams…

Spreading her legs a little wider, she fits her whole hand between the fork of them, slipping a thumb beneath her panties to press the calloused pad of it against her clit. Without the intervening fabric, the contact is _sharper_ , more intense, and she exhales raggedly at the temporary release it brings to the tightness digging claws into her lower guts.

Percival whimpers, in his sleep, the noise sharp and jagged and hastily-stifled, and she sighs happily when his next exhale is more whine than breathing. He groans, and she nearly groans with him, head tipped back to stare up at the stars and underwear slowly turning damp with arousal.

She stays like that, for a while, legs spread against the forest floor and thumb circling over her clit to winch the heat in her stomach tighter and tighter with every pass. The forest comes to night-life around her, quiet chirps and rustles that covers her own heavy breathing – but not, thankfully, the ever-louder sound of Percival dreams turning dark and sour.

What starts off languid, though, quickly turns frantic, needy, _desperate_ – though she’s loathe to admit to being so _base_ , so governed by her instincts.

Percival’s whimpers and groans, his sharp, choked noises of distress, become more frequent, more _scared_. The roar of arousal in her chest snaps and snarls with every one, cries out for more. Her thumb moves faster, presses harder, until the pleasure is no longer a low thrum but a sharp, throbbing stab, and still she needs _more_ -

Percival yells in his sleep, a wordless cry laced with an edge of pain, and she can stand it no longer. She pushes fingers inside herself in one hard, long thrust, and throws her head back even farther at how _good_ it feels. They slip in easily, where she’s wet, where she’s _ready_ , sink deep and slick, and when she crooks them the fire in her gut flares sparking-red and _hungry_.

She doesn’t do this often, really – she’s not the type for sexual gratification, honestly, _but_ … there’s something so _sweet_ about the way he moans her name in fear, the way his breath hitches and gasps with horror. It’s just _too good_ to pass up, gets her off fast and _hard_ like nothing else does, leaves her warm and satisfied for weeks after.

He groans, “ _Anna,_ no- please-” again, and she gasps, head tipped back until she’s staring at stars and body clenching greedily around her own fingers. There’s only two of them in her, thumb still working her clit in fast, hard circles – she’s nothing if not pragmatic, and the middle of a forest in the dead of night is no place to take your time with an orgasm – but it’s been a while, she’s out of practice, and it feels like so _much_.

She finger-fucks herself with a swift efficiency, bordering on frantic, thumb working her clit in bruising circles. She's so wet that the noise it's making is _loud_ , obscene, and she needs to be a little careful because she’s on watch, camp is less than ten feet through the trees and someone might hear, but _god_ -

Every time Percival cries out, “Anna, _no_ ,”, she clenches involuntarily, tightens around her own fingers where they’re pushed deep and crooked like he’s beckoning, pressed against the soft, sensitive places deep inside her. It's like lighting through her gut, every time, the dual flare of pleasure and _power_ , and she has to tug her lip between her teeth and bite down to keep herself from making unacceptable amounts of noise.

Twice, three times more he cries out for her, calls her name with terror in his voice – makes it sound like a plea, a prayer to an uncaring deity. The heat spikes each time, and within minutes she’s _aching_ , lightning prickling over her skin, the heat inside her almost unbearable. She approaches her climax as his nightmares approach theirs, her own breath going harsh and ragged even as he forgets how to breathe.

When Percival wakes, it is with a strangled howl, the noise tearing itself free from his throat no matter how he tries to choke it down. She can imagine him now, taller and broader and _older_ than he was when she knew,him _biblically_ , but still just as _scared_. Still shaking and wide-eyed, bolting upright in his bed in the darkness, scarred hands clawing at the covers.

For a long moment, the only sound through the listening stone is his heavy breathing, rasping and rabbit-fast in the darkness. And then… and _then_ … Then, there is the unmistakable sound of soft, broken sobs, wet and poorly-stifled and hitching in his chest.

She comes, then – buries her fingers deep into her wet, slick heat, crooks them, flicks a nail over her clit and comes _so hard_ that the stars in the sky are replaced with ones behind her eyelids. Comes to the sound of her beautiful, _broken_ Percival crying – by himself, in the dark, all alone, like the sad, lonely, _pathetic_ little boy he still is – because he knows, in his heart of hearts, that he will _never_ be free of her.

Her cunt clutches greedily at her fingers, sucks them deeper even as she fucks herself through her orgasm, and she remembers – in a burst of sense-memory so powerful she almost moans from it – _him_. All those years ago, him, beneath her, _inside_ her, only half-hard from blood loss and fear and shaking like a deer with its leg in a bear trap. Seventeen, seven days in her care, still a virgin and so _scared_ when she’d straddled him and sunk down onto him, rode him like there was salvation awaiting her in orgasm.

Even now, years later, she still considers it the best sex she ever had – the bitter, messy edges of human contact sweetened by the powerplay of it, by her control looped around his neck like a noose.

It takes her a few moments to come back down, thumb still working over her clit as she shudders through the aftershocks. By the time her senses return to her, the stone has gone silent and dead, Percival apparently having – regrettably – gotten himself back under control. But no matter.

She’s gotten what she came for, gotten what she _wanted_ , and that’s all that matters. That’s all that’s ever mattered, between her and Percival.

Slipping her fingers out, sighing quietly at the oversensitive spike of friction, she wipes them off on a nearby tuft of grass until they’re clean of her own slick. She tugs her skirt back down, lets it settle heavy around her ankles again, and sighs again. Her underwear is ruined, soaked through and no doubt stinking of sex, but there’s little that can be done about that.

It’s no matter, anyway. She knows that, even if they noticed, not _one_ of her hired guns would _dare_ say anything.

She smiles, satisfied, at the reminder of the power she still wields over people – even if Percival is, for the moment, out of her reach – and tucks a few wisps of hair escaped from her bun behind her ears. Tucking the stone back into the neck of her blouse, and picking up the familiar weight of Animus once more, she settles in for the rest of her watch.

The memory of her orgasm lingers, though, the echoes of Percy’s sobs ringing in her ears sweeter than any song. Though the sleep-heavy rush of endorphins fades soon enough, the _satisfaction_ of it lingers – warm in her gut and slick-wet between her legs – until the sun rises.

**Author's Note:**

>  **cw** for ripley masturbating to the memory of raping a seventeen-year-old percy, and to the sound of him having nightmares about her. it's presented as fucked up, and ripley is aware it's fucked up, but it's still a rapist getting off on having raped someone - please tread carefully.
> 
> i… have no answer to “why did you write this”, really. ripley’s fucked up, it’s very interesting getting into her head, and this is dirtybadwrong on so many levels. it’s… it’s been a week, guys, and percy/ripley is apparently very good for de-stressing. written to, and title from, “[mistakes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6fZ1FNrKMUA)” by phildel.
> 
> find me on @sparxwrites on tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [An Apple A Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407120) by [Bingothefarmersdog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bingothefarmersdog/pseuds/Bingothefarmersdog)




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